Love Triangle Six Books of Torn Desire - Willow Winters Page 0,14

I say, “without checking myself out.”

“As beautiful as you are—”

“It’s not vanity.” Though the compliment has me beaming. “It’s a matter of professional growth. Dancers live, breathe, and thrive by watching their reflections.”

“Ah.” He glances at my thighs where they hook around his waist. “That explains why you’re so fucking fit.”

“Straight-up cardio, all day, every day.” I finish off the last swallow of lukewarm coffee. “Your turn.”

“I didn’t realize I was participating.”

“Tell me eleven things I need to know. Feel free to start with the most scandalous ones first.”

His smile is infectious. “I have a huge appetite. For food and other things.”

“I exercise for a living, which means I’m always hungry. For food and other things.”

He groans. “I’m ready to start that date now.”

“You haven’t heard the rest.” I cock my head. “The next thing you should know is the only movie genre that exists is Dirty Dancing.”

“That’s not a genre.”

I arch a brow.

“Okay, I get it,” he says. “There’ll be no discussions about what we watch on movie night.”

“Unless Dancing with the Stars or So You Think You Can Dance is on. Those take precedence.”

He shakes his head, smiling. “I can live with that, if you can live with my mode of transportation.”

I crane my neck to peer at the sexy lines of the Harley we’re straddling. “What if it’s snowing?”

“We stay in bed.”

Well, damn. I press my grin against his chest. I’ve been smiling so hard and so long my cheeks hurt. Who knew an unexpected moment with a stranger could be so agreeable. I want to pour this feeling into a fireproof box and keep it under my pillow.

“Give me another one,” he says.

“I have a tendency to break out in dance.” I wriggle on his lap. “Anywhere. Anytime. If there’s an opportunity for spontaneous dancing—in the supermarket, at a bar, on the toilet, you better be prepared.”

“This, I have to see.” His gloved thumb strokes the skin along my spine, making me shiver. “You should know I’m not a good dancer.”

“That’s my job. As long as you have rhythm and you’re not afraid to let loose, we’ll get along just fine.” I tilt up my chin and sink into his warm brown gaze. “I own a crapload of beauty products and clothes. My spare room overflows with dance costumes I can’t part with, stockings of every color and style, beaded bras, double-sided tape, false lashes, dance shoes… You get the idea. Dressing up is my job, so don’t expect me to give up a drawer for your sleepovers, because it ain’t happening.”

His lips bounce between mirth and contemplation. “I don’t wear underwear.”

Oh, sweet Jesus. If I dipped my finger down the back of his jeans, would I slide right into his crack? I might be on the extreme side of outgoing, but I should probably wait for our date before playing with his butt cleavage.

“I don’t share,” he whispers.

“I don’t cheat,” I whisper back. “But there’s no place for jealous cavemen in my line of work. I dance with guys. Wear skimpy clothing around guys. Shake my ass in rooms filled with guys. Can you deal?”

He groans and slides his cheek against mine. “I’ll deal.”

We continue our back-and-forth conversation, and I lose count of how many things we share about ourselves. He admits to being a mercurial hothead, a workaholic, and an opponent of alcoholic beverages that require a corkscrew, while I express my love for stretching, body massages, and all things Beyoncé.

“As far as corkscrews are concerned,” I say, “I love a late-night glass of vino, but I’m all for the screw-cap, economy-jug variety.”

“You’re adorable.”

“So are your dimples.”

He sighs, and the sexy hollows in his cheeks fade away. “I have to go to work.”

I don’t like it, but I knew it was coming. Untangling my legs from his waist, I prepare to brave the cold.

“Ask me to stay.” He touches a knuckle beneath my chin.

So tempting, but I need to process. Alone. I’ve never climbed onto a stranger’s lap and flirted like a crazy person. It calls for analysis of feelings and sanity. Maybe some meditation for good measure.

I lean up and hover my mouth a kiss away from his. “Anticipation,” I whisper, “heightens the pleasure.”

His entire body goes hard against me, but he doesn’t close the gap between our lips. “I hear the same applies to trouble.”

Trouble heightens pleasure? With him, I believe it. “Are you trouble?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then come back tonight.”

I pull away, and his mouth chases mine.

“Tonight.” With a hand on his chest, I